


Interim

by WildandWhirling



Category: Cath Maige Tuired, Irish Mythology
Genre: As Canon Compliant As Possible When There Is No Consistency In The Canon Proper, Because It’s Vaguely Medieval Ireland And That’s How They Roll, Bres and Sreng Make Questionable Life Decisions, Competitive idiots in love, Elatha’s A+ Parenting, Established Relationship, Everybody’s a Bit of a Fatalist, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Major Abuse of Irish Mythology, Secret Relationship, Slight Abuse of a Fidchell Board, Though No More Than Usual, Very established
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13215072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: In exile with the Fomorians, Bres finds himself consumed by his quest to take back the throne. Sreng finds a way of distracting him.





	Interim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallenidol_453](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenidol_453/gifts).



> Inspired by knifeofdaudwall’s Fictional Kiss Prompt List on Tumblr: “19. Kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing”
> 
> (Full prompt list here: http://knifeofdaudwall.tumblr.com/post/158685757311/fictional-kiss-prompts)

> "In that battle, moreover, Nuada's hand was stricken off—it was Sreng son of Sengann that struck it off him— so Dian-cecht the leech put on him a hand of silver with the motion of every hand; and Credne the brazier was helping the leech. 
> 
> Now the Tuath Dé Danonn lost many men in the battle, including Edleo son of Alla, and Ernmas, and Fiachra and Turill Bicreo. 
> 
> But such of the Fir Bolg as escaped from the battle went in flight unto the Fomorians, and settled in Arran and in Islay and in Mann and in Rathlin."
> 
> -Whitley Stokes, The Second Battle of Moytura

What passed between Bres mac Elatha and Sreng mac Sengann before the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh?

Not hard to say.

The impossible had happened: Eochu Bres mac Elatha was aging. The years, and the stress that they brought with them, had taken their toll. Oh, to anyone who didn't know him, Bres remained as he always was, golden, young, perfect of form, beautiful. He was a little more solemn, he smiled a little less than he had in days past, but, what was that? Few enough people had noticed Bres' smiles before, the absence of them hadn't troubled them, especially among the Fomorians. Who, besides Sreng, would notice a few lines here and there, or the way his eyes dulled more and more with each meeting he had with his father, each feast he had with some Fomorian petty king or another? Who would notice that when he spoke, the words that spilled from his tongue, still as honeyed as the day they'd met, were dull? That he himself had stopped believing them at some point?

His father didn't care, he spent half his time lecturing his son over losing Ireland and the other half showing off his latest loot from the raids. To Ruadan and the rest of his children, their father remained the peerless hero, unbreakable even in his self-imposed exile. The boy had been fostered off to King Indech several years before, his meetings with his father becoming more sporadic as he rapidly approached manhood. When he did come, Bres put on his best show, smiling, ruffling his son's hair, sparring with him and Indech's boy, Ochtriallach, who watched the two of them with hungry eyes.

Eriu alone noticed Bres' declining state, walking with her son on some nights when he would have otherwise been completely gone, taking his hand in hers and speaking to him in gentle, soft tones, while later she smoothed Elatha over. Several times, she had been the one to send for Sreng, the dark-clothed messengers arriving in the dead of night. Other times, Bres would come himself, stealing moments in between meetings and raids to see him, and Sreng savored those moments like he would the water of life itself.

This time, he'd come to see Bres, Fir Bolg business being quiet for the past few weeks while his brothers took care of anything that required urgent attention. His entourage had been well-received; Bres had long since learned his lesson about hospitality and, even had he not, he would never have slighted him. As the night wore on, however, he could see Bres’ anxiety deepen and he eventually retired. As his own men grew worn and tired after their trip, they too became weary of the night and began to trail off along the platformed sides of the longhouse. After a while, Sreng joined them, waiting a time before rising and making his way over to the wooden partition at the end that separated Bres’ bed closet and private quarters from the rest of the house. A lifetime of keeping quiet had taught him how to sneak about unnoticed, something for which Bres relentlessly teased him about in brighter days.

 _“And yet I have the reputation for being underhanded,” he said, “While the Fir Bolg king slips into my quarters without raising a single alarm.”_  
_“Unless you’d like to be the one to slip past my guards,” Sreng murmured against his throat._

His partner, he knew, never liked people that well. Even while he was with the Tuatha dé, he was intensely private, eating his meals alone whenever he could. That Sreng was allowed the privilege of being near him even during those times was something he had never undervalued. Every man declared his love differently. For some, it was a matter of fine jewels and gold, for others, passionate declarations of love. For Bres, love was in small actions, brushes of the hand that lingered, the way his arm unconsciously reached for him in the mornings that followed a night spent together, eating with him alone, in an easy, companiable silence that would often extend into politics and the battlefield and hunting before stretching back to silence.  
  
Bres remained awake and alert, stooped over the old, worn fidchell board he’d taken from Ireland. At Sreng’s arrival, he didn’t raise his head, however the edges of his mouth quirked up slightly.  
Sreng sat down beside him. "Battle plans, love?"  
"Worse. The seating arrangements for the feast in a fortnight." His hand rubbed circles into his forehead lightly. "All of the Fomorian nobility will be there and all of them, justly, hate each other."

Bres continued on, moving one piece into a spot, then another, then another. His brow knit as he paused for a moment, his eyes moving between two pieces that Sreng had come to realize represented Kings Indech and Tethra of the Fomorians before taking them all off and starting the process anew. He did look endearing like this, so completely focused, but the man needed a rest. The dark circles under his eyes said that much.

Sreng stood up and took the king piece before Bres could, his knuckles brushing against Bres’ as he put it into the center, where it belonged. Bres looked up at him in surprise, but otherwise said nothing, allowing him to put each individual piece back into place. Even he had to know that it was time.

“Offenders or defenders?”  
“I’ll take off-defenders. I’ll take that.” It had taken a little while for Sreng to become accustomed to the King of the Tuatha dé behaving like a nervous boy afraid of talking to his first love the second he was caught by surprise, however now he found it charming, in the way that only Bres could be.

Despite his initial surprise, Bres as a fidchell player was like Bres as a warrior: Focused, brutal, and relentless. For every move that Sreng made, he had a counter move, their opposing sides dancing around each other on the board. It was almost a game in itself to watch the movements of his hands across the board or to watch his face as he considered each possible move, weighing it against some overarching plan. All of his focus from before had been put into the game, and he had no intentions of taking all the pieces off and starting anew. He was there to win. Soon enough, Sreng found Bres’ king nearing the edge of the board, with none of his own players to intercept. Only a few moves and the game would be done.  
  
Right. Time to up the stakes.

As Bres tried to focus on a new move, he grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. After a moment of confusion, Bres kissed him back slowly, his lips warm against Sreng’s. It had been too long. _Too long_ -one of Bres’ hands moved to his neck, holding him in place as a groan tore out of his throat. Sreng’s leg came into contact with the fidchell board, causing it to totter dangerously before he loosed his hand from Bres’s shirt to steady it. That seemed to bring Bres back to the present, as he broke the kiss, though he didn’t make any effort to remove his hand from Sreng’s neck. He looked back at the fidchell board for a second, narrowing his eyes at it as he tried to recall whatever move he’d been about to make.

"Sreng…" Bres swallowed, his gaze flicking between his eyes and his mouth. "You are not giving me a fair contest, _a stór_. _That’s_ the kind of thing I would do."  
“And it works for you every time.” Sreng nuzzled against Bres’ cheek in encouragement.  
Bres closed his eyes, leaning in for another kiss. “I still won, you know.”

 _Victory_.

Hours later, they laid together on the scattered wolves' skins that Bres kept on top of his bed, Bres’ head on Sreng’s chest while Sreng played with his hair, admiring how the dying firelight from the hearth played off the gold. Here, all of it--the years, the stress, the pain all melted away, and it was just the two of them together as it always had been.

“Forget all of this,” Sreng murmured, “Run away with me.”  
Bres’ thumb brushed across his rib cage. “I seem to recall me making a similar offer to you, once.”

He had, when they were younger. Before the throne, on one of the nights at Maige Tuired where silence had otherwise lingered as both sides worked to bury their dead before more came to take their place. A desperate plea from a young lover that had gone unheard at the time.

_“The Fir Bolg need me, Bres. King Eochaid-“_

_Bres swerved to see him, eyes alight with something Sreng had never seen before. Passion, fury, he wasn’t sure which and it was intoxicating and terrifying at the same time. “Damn King Eochaid! Damn him and damn Nuada as well. It's not as if you've ever had any love for them.” These weren’t the measured words of diplomacy, they were the sharp words of the battle-rush._

_Bres clutched at his side, where Sreng knew he’d been stabbed by King Eochaid before. (By the gods of his tribe, as if he could forget the sight.) Had he been one of their men, without the Tuatha de’s...whatever it was—witchcraft, divine powers, medicine, he didn’t know and he was afraid to ask _—__ _Bres would have died._

_Sreng approached him like he would a wild animal, like he’d approached him just several days before, when there’d still been hope that this slaughter wouldn’t happen. Before they'd seen each other face to face, before they'd spoken, before Sreng had felt Bres' hand hot on his as they had both sworn to keep their friendship no matter what would come of the next few days._

_Before King Eochaid and the Fir Bolg nobles shouted him down. Bres did have a point, there._

_His thumb caressed Bres’s cheek and he felt the other man relax against his touch, audibly exhaling a long, wanting breath._

_“I can’t make the Fir Bolg suffer for what they did. My father devoted his life to seeing that the Fir Bolg got to Ireland, all I can do now is devote mine to making sure we don’t leave it easily.” The last time he'd seen King Eochaid, as he trudged off the battlefield, he had looked Sreng in the eye and told him to keep up the battle. Sreng generally didn't care what King Eochaid thought of him, but, in that moment, he had recognized the severity of the situation even though he didn't realize it would be their last meeting._

_Bres kissed him then, a hard, gasping kiss with teeth and tongue that left the both of them breathless, and Sreng knew that it was one last, desperate attempt to stop what had already been thrown into motion years before. He clung onto Bres, knowing fully well this time that there would be no outs, just this, once, if the battle turned out as he knew it would. They stayed like that, Bres nearly leaning on him and Sreng afraid to let go until the first sliver of pale blue on the horizon marked the approach of dawn and they parted._

“You did make a similar offer.” Sreng knew that it had been desperate and ill-conceived. Not only would the Fir Bolg have been in chaos, but neither one of them, in hindsight, would have done well. His own guilt would have consumed him while Bres' ambition would have worked like a slow, bitter poison against them. After the initial rush of their escape wore off, he would have resented Sreng until the end of his days for taking him away from his dream, he knew it.

Bres fidgeted as he adjusted his position. “Suppose I consider it. Where are you offering? What would we do?”

“I don't think I'll see a day when the Fir Bolg are not adrift, at this point. My father's dream of settling Ireland seems to have been no more than that, a dream. Spain, Rusland, Lochlann, Troy, Egypt, Assyria…" His hand came to rest at Bres' back as he looked at him with mock disappointment. "We wouldn’t be well-recieved in Greece."

His partner gave a soft chuckle in response. "Are you suggesting that they might not be as susceptible to your charms as I am?"

"Leave Ireland to the Tuatha dé, for whatever good it will do them. Let them deal with the Fomorians, let your father preen over his victory. Take Ruadan and your other children and just…leave, Eochu.”

Bres was silent, and Sreng could practically see his mind working with the information, spinning it around and around, strand by strand, then working it again, like an old woman with her yarn, even as he knew that there was only one response he could give.

Then, “I wish that we’d been born in a lifetime when we could have done it.”

Sreng’s lips touched Bres’ brow. “I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, generally I have a Very Angsty Separation for these two around the time of Bres being taken off the throne and going into exile among the Viki-I mean, Fomorians™ (Or, as I like to call it, “The Yeeting of Bres.”) HOWEVER re-reading the text, it’s pretty obvious that there’s room for them to have been banging the whole time. Hence how this fic was born. 
> 
> While all of the places Sreng references are pretty improbable for 1800-1200 BCE, when Cath Maige Tuired is generally dated (though i tend to set it in the 9th century CE, when it was written), all of them (save for Rusland, which is me having a bit of fun) are referenced in other texts from the Mythological Cycle, particularly The Fate of the Sons of Tuireann, which I would place as occurring about a decade after this. (I generally put Ruadan at about five when Bres left Ireland, Vikings believed that manhood began at about 12, ergo Bres has been in exile for about seven years, give or take.) 
> 
> All of this is to say that it’s as historically accurate as the source material, God help us all.


End file.
